


Opaque Romance

by ticklishivories



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vomiting, grotesque amounts of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticklishivories/pseuds/ticklishivories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is written with the intention to please the reader and place the characters in unlikely scenarios where one has to take care of the other. It's full of everything you imagine your otp doing before you sleep at night. So be warned, this can either be disgustingly sweet or very out of character.<br/>.<br/>Rain changes people- makes them want, and ache. Makes them go crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opaque Romance

**Author's Note:**

> this is a thank you to Kay who not only draws beautiful art but who is also becoming a very dear friend to me <3
> 
> again warning for tons of fluff and possibly out of character otp

It rains. It’s the kind of rain that entrenches itself inside you, thick and murky, that cranks and winds up your thoughts and unsettles your anxious, coiled heart. It inflicts desire. Rain can do that, do funny things to your head. You want, and you ache- for anything or for nothing.

The rain bounces on the road like spilt marbles. Your bike takes you down the cul-de-sac from the marketplace to the suburb, where you pedal downhill and through silver sheets of water to get home. Street lamps shine spotlights on the black road. You pass underneath them like tunnels, quickly slipping within and without perfect darkness. The fresh rain makes the granite smell like putrid gasoline. Your nose grimaces.

In your basket you carry precious commodities; groceries, something you’ve been dying for since your brother left two weeks ago. He entrusted you to keep the house from burning to ash and smolders, but failed to leave you with a car in case of an emergency, in this instance being an unstocked fridge. Even you grow tired of frosted flakes and Chinese takeout. But you dread the bike ride to the grocery store, a dismissible five mile drive but an agonizing two wheel uphill death course. Coming back would not have been so awful had it not started pouring. Now you are convinced the entire effort was worthless. You have a basket full of soggy food, a head full of flat dripping hair, and a heart that wishes to blame but can only blame itself.

Red flashing lights catch your attention. You’ve reached the railroad tracks at the bottom of the slope, meaning that you are nearly home. You stop for them, frustrated. You want to strip away the clothes that stick like caramel to your skin. There’s no train that you can see, no bright light penetrating through the sheets of static, and no rumble underneath your feet. You consider leaping the tracks. But at that moment you hear the loud horn, and it's too late. You sigh and concede to slump back on your bike. It's clear that you will be forced to sit in the cold for several more minutes while the train rolls by.

The bells of the warning lights toll out. Rain as white noise. You glance incuriously to your side and are startled by a figure that looms by the tracks.

How weird, you hadn’t noticed him before. His hair is so soaked and black that it almost disappears in the darkness. He is small, in the way that makes you think of fragile old people. But he is your age, possibly older. His clothes tightly cling to his unnaturally twiggy frame, and his eyes stare soullessly at the tracks, listless and clouded, as if he cannot see them.

“Hey,” you say, because his presence unnerves you. He does not reply; he doesn’t even look your way. You speak up over the rain and again you are ignored. You’ve never been a sucker for what happens beyond the grave, but now you are questioning your skeptic way of life. This man neither moves nor acknowledges you; only stares, like a wandering spirit, emptily at the tracks as dark red flares over his face. The train horn blares again, makes you jolt. You’ve got goose bumps rising all over your arms and neck. The ground tremors beneath you as you step off the bike and approach the man with cautious, apprehensive steps.

“Dude, are you okay?”

No answer. He stands several feet from you now, and you’re tense, ready for some kind of prank, a scare, an answer, anything.

“Hey, what's your problem!”

The train is coming. You can feel it.

"Hey!"

He begins to fall forward. The train is here. You run.

 

He lies underneath you several feet from the train that blasts by apathetically. You are panting, your heart is choking inside your throat and your limbs tremble when you push yourself up from the ground. He sits up with you, cool and collected compared to the state you're in.

"What...what the hell?" you shout, kneeling in front of him and trying to catch your breath over the humidity in the air. You glower at him. He stares back, open-mouthed and dumbfounded, as if he is seeing you for the first time. His hair hangs like seaweed in front of his face. You frown deeply. "Were you going to kill yourself?" Maybe you should have been more sensitive to his feelings. Right now you were too angry to care.

"What?" It's the first word he's uttered and you don't think that's what a suicidal man should sound like. He's perfectly calm, perfectly chipper, and... "Kill myself? Oh, gracious no!"

You brow furrows. "What?" A piece of your heart deflates with relief. Still, you can't push away the unsurety squeezing your gut. "Then. Then what were you trying to do? You were looming in front of the tracks like some kind of ghost. I called out to you several times."

"Oh..." He smiles. Waves you off. "Well, it looks like there's been a severe misunderstanding. I assure you that there were no such intentions that I would, that I'd ever..." His voice tapers off. "That I'd..."

You see it coming before it happens. The gleam in his eyes dissipates, and his smile crumbles. He hunches forward, hides his face in his hands and sobs.

You're unsure what to do. A crying man sits in front of you, bawling, louder in your ears than the blare of the horn or the hiss of the rain, and you only stare, frozen.

The anger that you felt before seems pointless. You are cold, and you know that he is too. You know nothing else, but you don't need to. He is a mangled, broken and tired fragment of a human. You let him cry. In the pouring rain you sit with this man and quietly listen to his sorrow.

Eventually he tires himself, you think. Tentatively, you reach for his bony shoulder, and with a sniff he looks up. He meets your eyes; they're watery, red, and miserably hopeless.

"This way."

He doesn't fight it, he doesn't say no. You walk with him the rest of the way to your house as the rain begins to clear up.

* * *

 

It feels odd being grateful for your brother's long businesses trips away from home. You resent them because he is your only source of food and travel (since he takes all the damn car keys when he leaves). But now, you aren't sure how he'd react to you bringing home a stranger that could be a homeless person or a serial killer. You probably should have thought more about bringing this man to your house. But the times that you think and plan things out always blow up in your face. You didn't want that to happen. You trusted your gut. Hopefully this whole situation won't turn into a catastrophe.

When he walks through your front door, trudging behind you with his head lowered and his arms hugging his chest, you feel more like you're kidnapping him than offering him...you're not sure. Shelter? A place to stay for the night? Again, you didn't think it through. You ask his name and your voice lacks confidence. An answer is not what you expect.

"Jake," he mutters, his voice wispy and slurred like mud. He moves out of the way when you close the door behind him. You're both dripping onto the wood floors.

"Let's dry off and get warm. I'm Dirk, by the way," you add as an afterthought. He only nods. Before he follows you into the house he steps out of his wet shoes and socks. How polite. You copy him and feel a bit better after your soggy socks are peeled off. With Jake in tow you walk through the kitchen and to the bathrooms, frequently glancing back at him.

He still looks like a ghost. You sigh. What are you going to do?

In the bathroom, you have several towels piled atop the toilet lid and the sink. Currently you have one draped over your shoulders as you dry your hair. Another hangs in Jake's hand. He's gazing off to the side with that vacant look again. Unmoving. You snap him out of it.

"Hey, you gotta dry yourself before you get sick."

He starts out of himself and gets moving. "R-Right." Jake ruffles the towel over his black hair. It makes it clump and stick up at odd angles. You chuckle quietly and it has him looking up at you.

"What? What is it?"

You shake your head. "Your hair is funny."

He stares at you. What you were hoping for was a smile, maybe even a little giggle back. But he only stares. Right. Maybe he didn't have it in him to laugh. You clear your throat and change the subject.

"How old are you, Jake?"

He resumes drying his hair and neck. That relieves you. You follow suit, though there's little more that you can dry. You're soaked to your underwear. You'll have to change clothes, and probably give Jake a dry set too.

"I'm nineteen," he says.

You nod. It feels awkward. "I'm twenty. I commute from my bro's house here to the university in Aquarina. Do you go to college?"

His green eyes darken. Fuck. Again you change the subject. "I brought back groceries. They might be a little, uh. Wet. But we can eat." You groan because everything you say sounds like word vomit. You don't know what to do around someone so deeply distraught. Is talking about eating okay? Will it trigger something? So many things could go wrong, and it'd be your fault if he broke down again or had some kind of attack-

"Yes!"

He's not smiling; you don't think he could with those bruises under his eyes. But there's a light you didn't see before shining behind his glasses. It warms you. Jake catches himself in his eagerness and looks away bashfully. "Yes, I'm starved."

You grin and take a dry towel. Carefully, you drape it over Jake's shoulders. "How does spaghetti sound?"

Jake doesn't hesitate. "Lovely."

"I'll get it started, then.

 

He sits across from you in the kitchen. The piping hot meal is already halfway gone. His cheeks are smeared in tomato sauce but he doesn't seem to care, and neither do you. You're only a few bites in; it's just too hot to attack like it's the last fucking supper. Your black hoodie swallows up his noodle-ly body. Jake doesn't know it's yours though- you told him a tiny white lie and insisted it was your brother's. He thanked you profusely and commented on how warm it was and how good it smelled. You wished you told him it was yours, then.

"How is it?" you ask, slurping up a knot of noodles.

"Mm!"

"Good."

There's color returning to him, faint but visibly pink over his stark, pasty cheeks. He forks a meatball and stuffs it into his mouth. You grin to yourself and return to your own plate.

He helps clean the dishes with you. The pasta bowl is left in the sink but the others are washed and dried clean. Neither of you say much, and even though you want to talk, possibly get to know him better because he's still a complete stranger, you find an odd comfort in the silence. He doesn't seem like he could harm anyone, or steal from you. He just seems...helpless. Desperate, lost, and helpless.

But there's a light that peeks through the cracks, a dazzling glimmer of promise, that you're lucky enough to catch when he thinks he isn't being watched. He isn't completely hopeless. You can help. You can do something.

Jake catches you watching him. He sets the dish back in the cupboard and raises an eyebrow.

"Is something the matter?"

You lean against your elbow on the counter. You don't stop looking at him over your shades. Jake flushes and pulls his gaze back to the clean plates.

Something strange sprouts in the pit of your stomach.

"So, I think it's pretty fair to say that you owe me some answers Jake."

He stills.

"I probably came off as aggressive back at the train tracks. I'm sorry about that. But I really need to know what's up. Help me out, so I can help you out. Okay?"

Jake is stock still in front of the sink. There's no emotion on his face. It unsettles you because not only does it remind you of the faces your family likes to use for no reason, but it looks terrible on him. Like he was never meant to look so vacant. Yes, you can trace the parentheses around his lips and the crinkles beside his eyes from smiling, and laughing. This face...belongs to the dead.

You push him anyway.

"Like, I know it's probably a really sensitive topic, but what were you doing out in the rain at such a ridiculous hour? It's dangerous, and there are gangsters that like to hang out in those business lots at night. Fuck, dude, you're probably gunna get sick. No, there's no question. I bet by tomorrow you're going to be wheezing in bed at me to make you chicken soup and blow your nose for you like your fucking grandma. And remember when I met you? You probably don't because you were so out of it. I thought you were dead. Tell me Jake, I think you owe me some answers since I picked you off the street and-

A plate shatters on the tile. Jake collapses to his knees among the shards of porcelain. He's holding his hand over his mouth and gasping for breath. Tears gush out from his tightly clenched eyes.

"I'm going to vomit!" he cries.

Fuck. You don't think.

Your arm wraps under his shoulders and the other slips under his knees. You lift Jake off the tile with frightening ease and run to the bathroom. Your feet nearly slip on the water you brought in from outside. The door is kicked open with your feet, and gently you lower his body to the ground and throw open the toilet lid. Jake lurches forward and vomits.

The guy is still crying and heaving his guts out. That must be painful. You feel like complete and total shit. You shouldn't have said anything. He doesn't owe you a fucking word.

Jake clutches the rim of the seat and pants as he waits for the next wave. His forehead shines with sweat and his glasses are slipping off his nose. You move forward to take them off. He flinches, which hurts you deeply.

"Do you want me to go?"

You don't say a word as you wait for him. He sniffs and wipes the snot dripping from his nose. Then, he shakes his head.

Slowly, you stand. Jake doesn't watch you move. He is quiet as you sit yourself by his side. You place your hand on his back.

"It's okay, dude. Let it out."

He chokes, and retches. Your hand rubs small circles into his back. Thankfully, he does not cry anymore.

For fifteen minutes you sit in the bathroom with him, cramped between the bathtub and his legs as you occasionally flush the toilet and pull back his hair from his sweaty face. He rests his cheek on the cool edge of the seat, and you take that as your cue to pull him away from the toilet and wipe his mouth with tissue.

Jake slumps against your chest. He's hot, and it's seeping through the black hoodie and into your own body. You teased him about it, but you didn't think he'd actually get a fever. Gently you rouse his shoulder.

"Jake," you murmur. His eyes are closed and his skin appears to be melting. But he makes a sound. A feeble little whimper. You strain to listen.

"I'm sorry Dirk..."

It's the first time he's said your name. And a full sentence, you think.

"I-I'm sorry, I...the spaghetti was so good, and I just up and puked it all away..."

You think you gag on your own spit. Your laughter shakes both you and Jake as you clench your teeth to try and constrain the sound. He's confused, and opens his dazed eyes to look up at you.

"Jake, trust me, that is the last thing that I care about right now."

You carefully move Jake away so you can stand and then help him up. His legs wobble dangerously but he manages. You hold his hands to keep him afloat.

"C'mon, I'll make something else. Something lighter." When you think he won't fall, you slip your hand away from his and head towards the door. You turn back one last time though, and the corner of your mouth quirks up. "I'll get you something to wash your mouth out with. Try not to scarf down the toothpaste too, okay?"

It was a simple joke, but for the first time, he cracks a smile. It makes your own drop off your face. Jake grins softly, the crinkles in his eyes filling out and the front of his teeth peeking at you from under his upper lip.

"I'll do my best."

That sprout in your stomach begins to bud.

* * *

 

The TV is on in the living room, but it’s muted. A show about remarkable worldly landmarks plays. It’s interesting entertainment when there’s nothing else to watch and good white noise when trying to fall asleep. Jake sits beside you on the couch, fast asleep himself, and nestled in a knitted blanket designed for comfort during breakups and steep emotional malaises. After he ate again (water mostly, and half of a ham sandwich) you told him you wanted him sitting up for a good hour before he slept. Lying down could trigger a repeat of before, you said. But while you switched on World’s Modern Marvels and he curled up in that blanket that has cradled you countless times before, he fell asleep within seconds. He now snores quietly beside your shoulder, and your eyes droop as the TV flickers across your face. It's 3:17 a.m.

You can’t sleep, though. You’ve tried but your thoughts keep you wired. Jake is so close that he's on the verge of leaning against your arm. If you only moved over an inch, he'd be sleeping right on you. It makes your cheeks warm just imagining it, so you push the wandering thoughts away.

You still know nothing about this guy. After you literally caused his breakdown (which he didn't let you apologize for and you now ultimately feel a thousand times worse about), he ate his second meal without a word besides a standard 'Thank you.' But then, you offered to watch a movie. He turned to you and you almost had a heart attack. Because you saw something in his eyes that you hadn't seen before; excitement. He stuffed it away though, sufficiently suffocating the spark of light before you could comment on it. With him on one end of the sofa and you on the other, you watched a free movie that he was so heavily invested in you didn't think it'd be possible for another attack to happen.

Even though it's eating you away inside that you don't know what's up with him, you won't have a repeat of last time. You let him watch the movie in peace, and you let him fall asleep to the sounds of old men droning about the mystery murders of Boon Island. Soon you can't help yourself either. With your cheek on your palm, you shut your eyes. Jake's snores beside you are a gentle, unfamiliar metronome that lulls you quickly into a restful sleep.

But it couldn't last forever.

What has you opening your eyes is the absence of warmth at your side. Your shoulder is bruised slightly, and there's a painful tingling in your arm as blood returns to it slowly. You rub your eyes, roll your head to get out the horrible crick, and stretch. The TV is still on. You feel sluggish.

"Jake, did you sleep well?" you yawn as you turn to greet him.

 Jake is not there.

The blanket is in a neatly folded pile on the end of the couch. You jump from your spot and shout his name. The silence of the house mocks you.

It's raining again when you stumble out the front door. You loathe the opaque color of the sky and sneer at the slickness of the road. It'd be too dangerous to use your bike. On foot, with only your true grit and stubborn will, you put everything you have into chasing after a man that you hardly know.

An hour of running later and you've searched the entire community. All of the back roads, the church, the train tracks, and no one has seen him; no one even knew who he was. You wonder if you ever met a man named Jake, if he'd been a self-constructed image of your imagination. And if he was...then what did that mean? What did you want from Jake that your mind was desperately trying to tell you?

The bus stop for the preschool passes by as you run. Up ahead is nothing, only woods and crop fields. If he is there then you might as well call the cops. You're so worried that you're tempted to call your brother and have him fly down with one of his stupid showy helicopters. Find him, find him.

Why do you care so much?

"Jake!" you call out through the rain. It's even colder than last night, and now there's a wind that pushes you back. You fight it- you fight through it all.

Mud is collecting on the roads as pavement becomes dirt. You think of giving up and turning back. He might not be here, he might be at his home, wherever that is, and he could be okay-

You see it.

Black, a heap of curled up black soaking in the mud by the fence blocking the preschool. You skid to your knees and sink into the disgusting filth. With gentle tugs you pull Jake out of the muck. There's no time to feel relieved. His eyes are closed and he doesn't move when you call his name.

"Hey, Jake, c'mon," you plead. He's dead weight in your arms, cold skin and chapped lips. His hair and your hoodie are caked with mud. It looks like he's sleeping.

"Jake..." You're urgent. Your voice aches in your throat.

_"Jake."_

He opens his eyes, looks around. The rain streaks down his cheeks. He sits up, breathes, and begins to cry.

It's not like the crying you've heard before. Not like beside the train, or in the kitchen. He clings to your shirt and cries like his heart is being peeled to pieces, like the world is crushing his bones and the rain is dropping acid onto his skin. You don't say anything, and you don't try to pull away.

Your arms wrap around his back and pull him close. You hear him choking on words, gasping for breath around forming the syllables to names and pleas for mercy. Your own name might be in there, or that's just your arrogance speaking to you. But you hold him, and press his body to yours so that maybe, maybe he won't shatter.

 

* * *

 

 

Legs around your waist, arms hugging your neck. He's a heavy weight on your back as you carry him back to your house. Jake had cried himself to the point of nearly passing out. Never had you seen someone in so much pain and trauma. There wasn't much thought put into whether you wanted to take him home again. He's trembling against your body. Idly as you walk you talk to him. You don't say much, just mundane, ordinary things, so that he can get to know you.

"So then the guy says that if it weren't for that seahorse getting impregnated he'd have kept his job. Twenty other people lost their jobs too. But Hollywood is a fickle place. Gotta keep the rules straight or there's total pandemonium. Right?"

Jake does not respond. Hopefully he can hear you. You go on.

"My brother has been in California for two weeks now." Rain still falls, but it's bearable, and you can see the sun trying to break through the clouds. "The asshole just takes the car keys with him so I can't drive. I don't understand what he's trying to say. Probably doesn't trust me. What, does he think I'm going to drive to Mexico and start my new empire of illegal drug importation? Nah, it's been done. I'd do something far more unpredictable with it. Like, I don't know, get groceries. Milk sounds pretty scandalous right now. I mean, water is essential to our survival, but drinking it all the time every hour of every day gets boring. So I use my bike, and I'll admit, it's a cool bike and all, but-"

"..."

You stop in your tracks. "What? Jake, did you say something?"

He gathers up the energy and mutters into your ear, soft and tired, "You talk quite a bit, don't you."

You peek back at him, grin, and continue walking. "I'll shut up, it's no problem."

"No," he sighs, and you can hear the cracks in his voice from so much crying. His nose presses into the dip of your neck and you repress a shiver.

"Okay. As I was saying..."

 

 

There's the powerful hiss of shower water coming from behind the bathroom door as you sit on the couch with your laptop on your knees. While Jake was showering you finally cleaned up all the mud and rain water on the floors. He's still in the shower, and it's only three in the afternoon. Open on your laptop is the Google search engine. You've been wanting to do this since last night.

 

_What's on your mind?_

 

|

 

|

 

how to help people with anxiety

_Searching..._

.

 

"Your old clothes are in the wash," you comment as you cut up the celery into bite sized pieces. Jake is watching you closely. You notice that he tries to speak up several times while you prepare the vegetables but he says nothing. Unlike before you don't push it.

"Okay, so carrots, onions, celery, what else..." you mutter to yourself.

"Garlic." Jake rolls up the sleeves of your orange shirt that's a little too big for him and extends his hand for the garlic clove. You hand it over, and he takes the knife and crushes a piece of the garlic underneath it.

"I have a thing that crushes it a lot easier, you don't have to do it that way."

"Oh, I know. But my grandmother taught me this way." He peels off the excess skin and throws it away. Then he starts with another clove. "She said this way brings out more flavor."

It's the first time he's mentioned anything about himself. You listen attentively, while carefully watching his handling of the knife. "Grandmas always know best about these kinds of things."

"Yes." A small smile grows on his lips, and when you see it, you have this sudden and violent urge to turn him towards you and.

No. That'd be a horrible thing to do.

"She knew everything. She could tell you how to properly hook a fish, how to read the skies for a coming storm, and other incredible things like which plants can heal blindness and greying hair." If there were any other word more perfect to describe Jake than 'glowing' you'd like to know what it was. He's so happy while he talks about his grandmother. It does funny things to your stomach. "She taught me everything I know. Although I don't think I will ever be able to live up to her astounding reputation, I may have the upper hand when it comes to armory. Oh, how we'd battle it out with our trivia. Back then she'd leave me flattened in her tracks. Now I'd consider myself an expert on the subject. If only she could see me."

He sighs wistfully, and dumps the naked cloves into the boiling pot. He's talked so much that you actually got a good grip on how his voice sounds. You decide without intending to that you like it very much.

"Hey, c'mon. I'm supposed to be making this for you." You pat his back and ask him to scoot over. He seems surprised.

"I don't mind!"

"Yeah, but I really think I should be the one to do it."

"Dirk, I think I can-"

"Dude, really, it's fine. It's supposed to be for you, and I'm basically your host. I'll do it." You reach for the knife in his hand but he's gripping onto it more tightly than you thought. You frown and jerk it way from him, but as you grab it the blade nicks the tip of his index finger.

"Ah!"

You drop the knife and snatch his hand. He yelps and snaps his eyes to yours. He's startled and wide eyed. You think quickly.

_Attacks could be triggered by anything, and it will happen very suddenly. Do what you can to stop it before it becomes too late._

"Jake, look at me." Blood oozes onto your knuckles. His green eyes are looking right into yours. He's frightened, but you don't think it's because of the blood.

"Dirk...what ever is the matter?"

"You're bleeding. Does it hurt?"

"Yes, a tad, but it's nothing to cry over." He winces. "Although the grip you have on my wrist might be."

Oh. You slip your hand away and lean against the counter. How embarrassing. "Sorry."

Jake shakes his head and takes several paper towels. He wipes the blood off his hands, then takes yours into his own. It surprises you a little bit, but you don't pull away, and quietly watch him clean off the red smeared onto your skin.

When he's done, he doesn't take his hand away. He holds it carefully in his, and stares blankly at the space between your chest. You purse your lips but don't make a sound. 

His eyes narrow. "I'm not completely helpless, you know."

You've never been so stunned by such a subtle implication of words. Jake slips his hand away and gets himself a band aid. You run your hand through your hair and return to the soup, with a little less enthusiasm and much more bruised ego.

The rain doesn't let up throughout the day. Jake tells you that a storm is rolling in, as he gazes out the window from the reading nook in the living room. You can't see anything from your place on the couch. It's so dark, and though you can't see it, you can hear it pounding against the roof and the windows. The soup is left boiling in the kitchen; you can smell the saltiness of the broth and it makes you hungry. It'll be done soon. Then Jake can eat something that will hopefully prevent a fever, and you can eat something besides Chinese.

Jake gasps when lightning strikes across his vision. It fills the house with blinding light for half a second, and then dies away. You jolt in your seat. Thankfully the rumble of thunder doesn't follow. You're about to reach for the blanket but stop yourself.

"Jake, are you cold?"

Jake continues to stare impassively out the window. Quietly, you stand from the couch, with the blanket on your arm. You approach him with caution.

"Jake?" You sit on the space where his legs aren't curled up. He's still looking outside, watching the rain sprinkle against the glass on a black canvas.

Your orange long sleeve shirt looks pretty good on him. It's too big though, and rests on his shoulders like a pillowcase. It hits you hard how sharp the bones are in his cheeks and shoulders. How had you not seen that before? You swallow, and think about all the vitamins that are in the soup. It'll be good for him. No more sandwiches or spaghetti.

You place your hand on his knee. Carefully. He turns to look at you.

The sound of the TV fills the silence. Jake only looks back with calm curiosity, but the tired lines under his eyes don’t fool you. Lightning strikes outside again, and the wind rages against the walls of the house.

Jake smiles. Just a tiny little lift of his lips, but it still manages to do things do your stomach. “What?”

You pull your hand away from his knee. “Just- um. Are you cold?”

He glances at the blanket in your arm. “A little.”

You move forward, and Jake begins to protest when he sees what you're doing, but it’s too late. Wordlessly, you drape the knitted blanket over his body. He runs his thumbs over the soft material, then burrows up to his nose in its warmth. There’s a light tint of color in his cheeks that you hope, with all the seriousness of a twenty year old broke college student, that it means he is happy. You rise from your seat once you think he's good and comfortable.

“The soup should be ready. I’ll go get some.”

You turn to leave, but you feel a gentle tug on the back of your shirt. Jake is holding you back by the hem. You could move away easily, his grasp is so gentle. You wouldn't dream of it though.

Jake is blushing. But...it's not any type of blush that you'd like to see on his face. His eyes glaze over, and his brows knit upwards and enhance the lines around his mouth. 

“Thank you, for everything, Dirk. I…I can’t express how grateful I am for what you’ve done. All of this generosity and...kindness...I do not deserve it. I know t-that it’s not fair to leave you in the dark, a-and…I owe you answers…”

Listening, you slowly sit back down. He’s slouching into himself, tugging the blanket protectively over his shoulders and trying to become as small as possible. Many tense moments pass. You decide to wait. But Jake never finishes his thought. When he finally looks up at you, his eyes red and brimming over with dread, he sees that your arms are open. Jake is hesitant and unsure, but slowly, surely, he crawls his way to you. He sits himself in the space between your legs as your arms come around his back. His body leans against your chest. He can probably hear your heart.

“You don’t owe me anything," you start. He's quiet beneath you. "I took you into my home because I wanted to. You don't have to worry about those things.” Your hand slides up and down his back, and the other rests on his hip. He feels cold and clammy. He’ll probably have a fever tomorrow. “And…you don’t need to tell me anything for me to know that you’re a good person.”

His face presses into your chest. You brush the stray tears from his cheeks, and return to watching the rain fall from the black, unknown sky.

* * *

 

For the next several days Jake is bedridden with fever. You chastise him and tell him over and over how this was his fault because he was an idiot and stood in the rain for several hours on two separate occasions. But he only gives you a dopey smile and tells you how sorry he is, that he didn’t mean to do it, and with that face you can’t stay mad at him for very long. He sleeps in your room and you check in on him every hour or so. He’s always either sleeping or too feverish to hold a conversation with you.

On the first day Jake has some serious vapors. He’s shivering and groaning underneath five layers of sheets, too hot with all five but too cold with only four. You spend the most time with him on that day; mostly running back and forth from the kitchen to his side with cold towels for his forehead and water for hydration. He’s not throwing anything up, thank god, but he also refuses to eat anything that you bring him.

“Hey, dude. How goes that deathly illness?” you greet as you enter your room. He’s sweating bullets, and only acknowledges you with the tiniest twitch of his eyes. You set down the plastic bag in your hand and sit at the foot of the bed. Jake is breathing hard and his skin is a nauseating, sallow green.

“You need to eat something.” You rifle through the bag and it crinkles as you take out the small cup of fruit. "It's peaches." You move to sit by his head. He doesn't even open his eyes. "I know you're probably sick of soup so I got you something else. This shit's got vitamin c, you really need it."

Jake is unresponsive. He only breathes in long, raspy bouts, with his hands curled by his mouth and his fringe sticking to his forehead. You set the fruit cup on the night stand and press the back of your hand to his cheek.

"You're melting," you tease, though in your eyes it isn't very funny. He's got to be over 100. You reach for the bag again and take out a pack of ice. Quickly you wrap it in several wash cloths, and place it on his forehead. "How's that?"

He nods delicately. You bring up a chair and sit with him for the rest of the evening.

The second day brings about all the worst sides of the fever. The bed creaks, bounces. You can hear it from the kitchen, the living room, and from Dave's room where you bunk instead. He's writhing, delirious, and makes appalling noises in his sleep. Night feels like day and you aren't getting any rest. Rain and wind howl furiously outside and worsen his nightmares. You physically remove him from your bed because he's clawing at his skin and at the sheets. He fights you. You consider throwing him in the bathtub.

"HEY!" You're shouting because you've had enough. Jake is wrapped around your torso like a sweaty and angry monkey and all you want to do is sleep. You untangle him from your body and throw him back onto the bed.

He's sobbing so hard there's no way he can be breathing properly. You have him pinned down by his shoulders and hips with all of your weight. He pleads and cries for someone that you come to know very well.

"Jake, Jake!"

You shake him forcefully. His arms weakly shove you back.

"Jake, it's okay, you're just dreaming, nothing is going to hurt her-!"

He stares at you, eyes wide and pools of tears streaming his cheeks.

And he.

screams.

 

 

The third day is nerve-wrackingly unexciting compared to the second. Jake sleeps innocently beside you, with your arm slung casually over his body and his legs curled towards his chest. You were up all night with him, and only an hour ago did he finally fall asleep. Now as he is still, you use the time to catch up on rest as well. Though your nap only skirts the surface of your exhaustion, you wake up with the energy needed to take care of Jake for the rest of the day.

But you don't get up from bed that instant. He's pressed close to you. The room is dark with rain, but it's calming, and a gentle glow blankets his perspiring skin. Your fingers tap lightly over his temple, and brush his black hair behind his ear. Jake does not stir. With too much reluctance, you remove yourself from his hold, and get ready for breakfast.

He eats with you in bed. The TV is on because he can finally tolerate sound and light. He drinks milk and slurps up the soup. For some reason he hasn't said anything about the flavor, and you're grateful. You tried it and could barely contain your gags in front of him. His taste buds may be shot but at least his body will appreciate the vitamins.

"You sure you can hold it down?" You take the empty bowl from his hand as he sips the milk.

"Yes." His voice is scratchy but immensely more firm than before. All of his focus is centered on the movie playing on the screen.

"Armpit," you say. He's already used to the drill. He lifts his arm and you stick the glass needle in between. You wait a minute or so and remove it.

"99 degrees." You grin and pat his back (gently). The bed creaks as you sit next to him. "You're getting better. Loads. It makes me happy to see you eating like this."

He peeks at you over the top of his glass. His eyes are a bright and rich green. He's happy. Healthy. Jake lowers the glass and there's a milk mustache on his lips.

You can't stop yourself.

Your hand balances itself on the sheets. You lean forward, and press your lips to his forehead.

It hits you hard what you've done. You jerk away from him like being burnt. But can't find it in yourself to leave his side, or look away from his eyes. He's surprised- you think. You can't tell. Jake looks at you like he's seeing you for the first time; a blank, fearful unknown that reminds you of the night beside the train tracks. He's been horribly sick for days, and though his skin is a little too pale for your liking he is recovering, and responds when you communicate with him.

But now...he only stares. You swallow, and look away.

"Sorry."

You hastily leave the room, and without another word, you shut the door behind yourself.

 

 

By the fourth day Jake is almost fully recovered. He helps you wash the bed sheets and refit them. At times he has to sit down and take a breather, maybe cough once or twice, but then he's back on his feet. He frets over breakfast, goes on about how he can eat again and demands that you order a pizza. You're shocked by his sudden abrasiveness but don't say anything about it.

"You can't eat that kind of junk yet. Your stomach is definitely still recovering, and all that double cheese and meat will only make you sick again."

"I'm afraid I can't find it in myself to care, Dirk. I've been hallucinating for a large pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom pizza that's positively _oozing_ with grease-"

"No.”

"Come now, be a sport..."

"Sorry but consider me your weight loss instructor because I've got you on a strict all fruit and veggie diet for the next week. That means no cheese, no meat, and no exceptions."

Then the guy has to give you those eyes, pleading green and soft and so full of life compared to what you've seen before, that you can't help it.

"Fine. But no pizza. How does bacon and eggs sound?"

He smiles, and the cogs in your heart malfunction. "Perfect.”

 Jake's got a tendency of being loud. It happens often when you're debating over which movie to watch or what to have for dinner. He just gets so excited that it bubbles over and he, quote, "forgets his indoor voice." You enjoy it though. Between your brother and you who only exchange conversation through nonverbal grunts and the students at school who never stick their noses out of their books, having Jake around is a wanted change. He's talking more than ever. Babbling a mile a minute about things that you only half listen to. You're not sure what it is; maybe it's the aftershocks of the fever. Or maybe this is who he is.

You want to believe it. But you can't- not when he sighs with such melancholy as he turns away from you.

 

The storm hits on the fifth and final day. Rain has been falling all night and veils the earth in a sleepy cloud. In the morning he wakes and tells you he feels spectacular and could go for a stroll through the neighborhood. You don't really want him going alone, so you politely ask if he'd like company. He declines.

"I'm in dire need of fresh air to clear the fog in the old noggin. This, I'm sorry to say, is a journey I need to take alone."

You purse your lips and shift your weight to your other foot. He's already halfway out the door with his hand on the knob and your brother's (it's actually your bro's) rain coat pulled over his hair. Outside, the rain drizzles.

"At least...take an umbrella." After searching the house you hand him a child's umbrella, sprinkled with small prints of ducks and beach balls. You wait for the snide comments, but none come. He holds the thing loosely in his fingers, not moving, only looking down at it, and just before you think he's going to refuse it he smiles at you. There's no joy in it though. Your heart cracks a little.

The door shuts, and for many hours you are left alone.

The rain really starts to beat down around six o'clock. The lights in the house flicker and threaten to blow out completely. Jake has yet to come home. You're fatigued with worry, sitting in the middle of the living room in the dark without a clue what to do. Warnings for flash floods are all over the news. Your house should be fine, but you don't have any idea where Jake is or if he's safe. Your fingers are dangerously close to your mouth as they tempt you to rekindle an old habit. Several times throughout the evening the electricity shuts off. Lightning is followed by thunder, and as you listen to music to block out the sounds, you stare at the unmoving door, hoping for anyone to come through.

At 9 o'clock the door bursts open. Thunder cracks and lightning bursts outside and you jolt up from your seat. Jake trudges inside, doing his best not to get the foyer too wet with the water he brings in. It's as if the rain coat did nothing. His hair is shining and slicked down over his face and his clothes cling agreeably to his skin. You run to his side and grip his shoulders firmly.

"Jesus Christ, you were gone all day. Where the hell did you go?"

He gives you his typical doe eyed, confused-startled look, that reminds you how aggressive you're being and that it really isn't your business. You release his shoulders and he visibly relaxes. Jake shakes out the umbrella and takes off his coat.

"I apologize for being out so long. I honestly lost track of the time." He removes his shoes, slowly, as if the movement of his muscles gives him great pain. You frown. "Has supper been made?"

You realize that you haven't had anything to eat since Jake left. You shake your head and he chuckles. "I'll get it started then."

As he's leaving you grab his wrist. Surprised, Jake turns back to look at you. You are determined and stubborn, and won't let him get away.

"You are sopping wet. If you don't get a fresh change of clothes _right now_ I'm going to throw you into the drier myself. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes and we're having enchiladas whether you like it or not. Now hurry your ass up, I'm not going to be so nice if you catch the fucking plague again."

You release his hand and sit back down on the couch, before you can hear his soft laughter and remark that enchiladas are his favorite.

 

The power goes out in the middle of your meal. There's a quiet 'ouch' across from you when the house is snuffed black and you set your fork down to search for a flashlight.

"You okay, Jake? Just stay there, I'll be right back."

"Fine, fine, just poked myself with the fork is all."

You snicker to yourself and feel across the walls to the kitchen drawers. You throw one open and fish out the flashlight. When it's on you shine it in Jake's face. He shields his eyes.

"Hey! Dirk, that's bright!!"

"Haha, duh." You set it on the counter so he can finish eating with the light.

Thunder rumbles through the house. You flinch, very subtly, but he sees it.

"You alright there?"

"Yes. Why?"

He watches you for several seconds, and you stare back impassively, daring him to push it, and he backs down.

"No reason."

With the power out neither of you bother cleaning the dishes. It could wait till morning. You follow him into the living room where the both of you sit by the window to watch the rain. The lightning is entertaining when there's nothing else to do. Jake sits close to you, close enough that you like to think he wants to lean against you. Close enough that you could feel his body heat, but he's unnaturally cool as always. Jake has the blanket; you insisted.

Thunder, like a bomb, like a vibration from deep within the earth, slams against the house and makes you jump. Jake quickly turns to you.

"Dirk, are you afraid of thunder?"

You glare. There's a glint of a smile on his face, a dash of pink and a delighted crinkle that shines in his eyes. You're about to snap at him, but another violent rumble in the distance silences you. Jake chuckles quietly. Anger wells up in you and slips from your control.

"Shut up, okay? At least I don't cry for my mommy in my sleep."

He stares at you.

"Jake, I'm sorry...I didn't, I didn't mean..."

You reach your hand out, but he pulls away.

"I know you didn't, Dirk." Jake won't look at you. He gazes out the window with a hollow, removed expression, as if there is something out there more likely to comfort him than you. There's a cold that's chilling your blood; it makes you sick, and it makes you hate yourself. Thunder shocks you out of the icy thoughts bruising in your head. He doesn't look in your direction this time.

The silence hurts you probably more than it hurts Jake. If you weren't socially inept you would tell him how you ached when you saw him in so much pain. You remember holding him during his nightmares, and how he'd thrash and shove and hit until he'd wake himself up. You remember his screams wrecked with true agony, a terror that no human deserved to feel, not alone. He'd wake with a start, panicked and heaving, and that's when he'd look at you, and cry; cry about his mother, his father, how sorry he was, how he had failed, how it was all his fault. And.

A girl. 

Who is she?

"How much do you know?" he asks. You can't read his voice.

"About what?" You're cautious.

"Don't play ignorant. I know I have a tendency of talking in my sleep when I'm...distraught." He still won't look at you. Your stomach knots.

You sigh. "Well, I'm pretty sure you're homeless, because you're putting up with me here for some reason. You weren't eating well before, but I can tell that you're already filling out. That's good. Uh...you're. Very upset about something, obviously."

He nods. The hand resting on his knee trembles. "Go on."

You're not sure if you should.

"You regret something. You blame yourself for it. That's what you say the most. I know your parents are involved somehow, but the core of the issue seems to be Jade."

Finally, he looks at you. You've never felt so compelled to hold another person.

"What do you know of her?"

You recall the worst night of his fever. The sweat drenching his pajamas, the veins bulging in his neck, and his voice, miserable with sick and delirium, that wouldn't stop muttering the same phrase.

_Don't leave me._

"She's someone that you care about, to put it lightly. I've guessed that she's your relative, but she could be something else?" You search his face. "A girlfriend?"

He shakes his head. "Jade is my sister."

You thought so. You didn't really consider Jake the dating type, or maybe, in your silly hopeful fantasies, the "dating a female" type, but there hasn't been much room for those kinds of thoughts. Jake hugs his knees to his chest. His eyes rest soullessly on the wallpaper behind your head. 

"Where is Jade?" is the next thing you ask him.

It happens so suddenly. Jake curls in on himself and begins to convulse.

"...!"

You are at his side in a flash, but hesitate to touch him. Should you hold him or call a fucking ambulance? Are his convulsions from sobbing or a seizure?

"Jake, look at me. Can you do that? Look at me, please."

Jake ignores you. Your panic sticks in your throat like a hot lump of coal that you can't swallow. He is malfunctioning like an overheated machine and you don't have the blueprints to fix it. What do you do?

"I'm calling an ambulance, okay Jake? Everything will be-"

"NO."

Looks like you're on your own.

You do everything in your power to help him.

_When dealing with someone having an anxiety or panic attack, remind them that they are safe, and that things will be okay. Take deep, slow breaths with them._

"Jake, Jake, c'mon, I'm right here, you're okay." Your fingers shake as they comb through his hair. You're kneeling in front of him, desperate to see his eyes. "Look at me, Jake."

Slowly, agonizingly slow, he lifts his head. His pupils swallow up all traces of green color.

"Breathe with me. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth." You show him. "Yes, that's it, with me. In," you inhale, "out." He follows your lead, and doesn't look away. "Good, good. Keep doing it. Can I touch you, Jake?"

After several cold, unknown seconds, he nods. You take his hands in both of yours and warm them.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?"

_A change of environment might be necessary, though this highly depends on the person. Moving may cause panic or break them out of their state of mind. If you choose to move them, let them lead the way. Whether the room is brightly lit or dark, large or small, depends on the person and their particular attack. Do NOT force anything._

Jake nods again. He's still shivering violently, but at least now he's breathing. You hold one of his hands as he stands, but beyond that he doesn't move. You wait for him. Eventually, he steps forward, and takes you to your bedroom at a snail's pace.

Your room is the darkest in the house. The window has its blinds shut, and with the rain, it's impossible to see. You know your way though, and Jake has been sleeping here long enough to find the bed without tripping over anything. It creaks when he gets on. You crawl in behind him. He doesn't let go of your hand.

_Touch can either be extremely helpful or extremely dangerous. Depending on the trigger or source of the attack, touching the person can have drastic effects. This is where familiarity is important. Read and understand their signals. If they tense when you approach then do not make any contact. If you fail to read their signs, ask if you can touch them. Permission is essential._

You don't need to ask him. The moment he lays his head against the pillow, Jake is curling close to you and his hands are fisting into your shirt. You lie down with him, and place your hand on his cheek. He's feverish now, but seeks the heat of your body. You cup his face in your hands.

"Jake."

He looks at you.

"Don't....don't leave me, okay?" Your voice cracks. The way he stares at you, void of reason or understanding for nothing but the pain he feels, kills you. It kills you to see him this way because he is precious, he is special, and the light that shines through his smiles is so brilliant and pure that it absolutely devastates you. "I'll do anything to help you, anything I can to fix it." Your thumbs dimple his skin with gentle pressure. You think your lower lip is quivering. "Please, Jake."

He stares, and he stares. He stares at you until you can't bear it, but you don't look away. You stay firm and strong for him, even though you want to run, and even when thunder violently strikes through the house.

"Why?"

The question startles you. Jake asks with such conviction that in any other circumstance you wouldn't think he was in the middle of an attack. He surprises you again when he places his hand over yours. His other stays curled in your shirt. "W-Why do you care so much? Why did you let me in your house, and let me eat your food, sleep on your bed, and share your luxury? I am a bum off the streets. I am a stranger. Why?" He wants to fall apart, but he's trying so hard not to break. "Why?"

And now, you stare.

Because you know the answer.

"I..."

But is it the right answer?

"Because... I love you."

You've stopped thinking.

"I love you, Jake, I really do. When I saw you by the train, I saw you as this helpless, weak, pathetic thing that needed to be saved. I took you into my home because in my eyes you were...like a stray, like a dog that had been abused and needed a place to stay before being sent to the shelter."

Jake watches you closely. He doesn't seem upset by what you're saying, but you are. The words scrape your throat as they come out. You breathe in rasps, and struggle for coherency.

"But when you smiled for the first time, when I saw that you could look so happy and so...so beautiful, despite all the horrible things that you're feeling, I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop myself and I'm sorry for that. Jake, I'm..." You gasp when more thunder explodes outside and flinch away from him. Jake isn't responding or saying a word and that frightens you, more than the storm and more than your heart thundering its own storm in your chest. But you stay, because he might need you, and because you dearly need him.

"Dirk."

You glance up when you realize your eyes were clenched shut. He isn't shaking anymore. His hand feels cool compared to your own, and his pupils have retracted. You can see his eyes, and you can see that he's.

He's happy.

"That was quite a shocking confession," he states when the silence becomes too heavy. Your brows furrow. "I think it snapped me right out of my attack. Thank you, for that."

You are incapable of speaking. Jake takes hold of the conversation, while the static in your brain slowly sifts through his words and computes their meaning.

Jake looks at you and smiles gently. Like you're the one that needs to be comforted. "Regardless of the reasons you took me in, I am extremely grateful for what you've done for me. You've...given me food, shelter, a-and a warm bed for Christ’s sake. No other that I know would do such a thing. The debt that I owe to you is unfathomable."

Your chest tightens. You don't have a clue where he is going with this.

"But...I'm, truly sorry to say, but on the matter of romance, I don't think I can..." Jake's eyes begin to water as he looks at you. He's so sorry. He is. "I can't, n-not now, I'm sorry Dirk, really, I..."

You pull your eyes away from his. Everything hurts. You don't have it in you to respond to him.

"Dirk..." Then, Jake is the one that is taking your hands in his, as he moves close enough to you that you feel his breath. "Look at me. Please?"

You do. His eyes are full of so much love and hope that it burns you. But...because he asked, you don't look away.

Jake leans forward, and kisses your lips. You close your eyes and push back. It's light, and soft, and so sweet that you feel sinful for desiring more. Jake breathes warmth against your mouth, and you tremble, as his hands press against your chest and slide up to your neck. You hold him by his back and by your hand against his cheek. When he leans away, you don't remove your hands, and neither does he.

You feel Jake's sadness within you deeply. He holds tight to you, takes a deep breath, and tells you everything.

* * *

 

"Hey, Bro."

"Sup."

"How was California?"

"Same as always. Lots of Mexicans, angry white people, and quality burritos. What about you? How many times did the house burn down?"

"Lost track at around seven. You gotta call your insurance company and thank them for the amazing work they've done. The house looks almost exactly the same as the first one."

"Are you sure? I would've thought this was the wrong house, because there's a complete stranger sleeping in my bed."

"Huh." You help Dave carry the last of the luggage into his room. "Weird, he usually sleeps in my bed."

Dave glares at you through his shades and crosses his arms over his chest. You would have made fun of him for looking like a typical father but now you can't afford for him to be angry. "Is this why you called me home early?"

You nod. "He really needs your help."

"My help? What the hell can I possibly do for a homeless teenager?"

You glance at Jake, who fell asleep in the middle of watching a movie on your brother's flat screen. He's drooling on Dave's pillow and everything.

You explain to your brother the situation, and after hearing Jake's story, he begrudgingly agrees. You thank him in Jake's stead, and promise to wash his car for a whole month. That appeases him more or less.

 

"A job?" Jake sputters over his meal in the living room.

Dave nods. He looks much less intimidating in a T-shirt and jeans, but Jake never really had a hard time being around him in the first place. Jake's eyes are nearly bulging out of his head beside you. To be safe you take his plate from him.

"You'll have to go through an interview with this guy I know just to make sure you know your stuff. But with the way Dirk here went on about you I'm sure you'll be fine."

Jake turns back and forth from you to your brother with bug-eyes and it makes you laugh.

"C'mon Jake, take it. You're an amazing gunsmith and you know your shit. Hollywood is calling for you and you gotta answer."

You wrap your arm around his shoulder and pull him into your chest. He looks at you one more time, then back at Dave. Then he smiles, and you fall in love with him again.

"Yes!"

 

Jake gets better every day. You sleep in your bed again while Dave is back, and Jake sleeps with you. He offered to rest on the couch of course, but you didn't allow it. You are used to him sleeping beside you by now anyways. His nightmares are few and frequent; the only problem you have with him is his snoring, which is a horrible growling that keeps you up for hours until you kick him awake. He just goes right back to sleep though, and right back to snoring. Dave feels no remorse for you; in his eyes, you adopted Jake, and now you have to feed him, take care of him, and deal with all of his shit.

He was hired on the spot, obviously. The interview was a quick, relaxed session with an old man from Hollywood's Museum for weaponry and arms. Jake's grandmother taught him well. He could work at home for Dave's movies, as a resource for the action shots so they could be as inaccurate as possible. It was perfect for him, and paid an envious amount that made even you jealous.

Jake had been dealing with his anxiety for years. He let it build up until it spun out of control, and led to a form of depression. You found him that night by the tracks, on the brink of despair, ready to give up on everything.

"It was the anniversary," he whispered to you, while the rain and thunder raged outside. "My parents were...running away. They couldn't take it, there was no money and the stress was too much. On that night...one year ago, on a stormy night like this, they tried to leave my sister and me in the horrible circumstance that they refused to take responsibility for. And they died, crushed by a passing train that they couldn't see through the guise of the rain. They must have been desperate."

You were hugging him so tightly you wonder how he could have breathed through his speech. You didn't interrupt him.

"I did everything I could to take care of Jade. But I couldn't find a job, and soon the bills started piling up, and CPS was on my tail..." Jake choked, and murmured. "T-They took her from me."

Jade was taken to a foster home. CPS had deemed Jake unworthy of taking care of her. Even though he didn't eat for her, didn't go to school for her, and gave up every luxury of being a young teenager so that she could have a chance at being raised by her own family. But it wasn't enough. He failed.

You kissed his forehead countless times that night, and promised you would help. And you did.

* * *

 

 

A year passes. Summer comes and goes, and when the leaves break from their branches and the sky greys with cold, Jake tells you that he is ready. He's been living with you for more than a year now. He takes you to your (both of your) bedroom, and sits you down.

You look at him. You like doing that. Especially now, now that his skin is a rich caramel and supple with nourishment and care, and soft with lips you've lost track of stealing kisses from. Now, he's always smiling. Even when he's angry, when he's sad, his smile is always there; in the glint at the corner of his eyes. You lean close to him for a smooch but he pulls away.

"Dirk, wait, I need to tell you something."

"Okay."

He steels himself, closes his eyes, and exhales quickly, "I want to move out."

You blink several times. "Oh."

"I can afford my own apartment, a house if I wanted! And I feel that I have taken advantage of your and your brother's hospitality for too long." He squeezes your hands in his. "I want to move out...a-and I want you to move in with me."

Oh.

You squeeze his hands.

"I mean, you don't have to of course, you are living well here and I'm not sure how well I'd maintain a living space, and I know that my snoring is intolerable but I am taking allergy medicine for it-"

"Yeah."

Jake's eyes brighten. "Really?"

You nod. "Yes, I'll move in with you."

A wide smiles blooms on his face and he throws his arms around you, kissing you all over your face and leaving you dizzy and overwhelmed with affection. He falls on the bed and takes you with him. You laugh and settle yourself between his open legs. 

It's happened before. Jake had said he wanted to wait for romance, but that never stopped his hands from wandering underneath the sheets, and it hasn't stopped you from pushing him down against the bed, the couch, the kitchen table, and anywhere that would raise his eyebrows a few inches. A lot has happened in the year he's lived with you.

Jake says he's ready for romance. Despite what you've already done with him, it means a lot to you. Your thumb traces soft patterns over his knuckles. His hands are warm. Nowadays they're always warmer than yours. You kiss him, deeply, intimately. His body knows and understands yours. Words aren't necessary anymore; where your hands and fingers press, he tells you he likes it by the writhing of his legs and the arch of his back. You tell him with the gentle movements of your hips between his legs how you feel, and with your lips against his lips, his stomach, his thighs, he feels and tastes so good that your heart wants to devour him whole.

As you both near your end, Jake meets your eyes, and smiles. He's changed so much from the broken person you found. Jake brims with hope, and life. And for some reason, he wants to share it with you. He wraps his arms around your neck and pulls you down as his skin slides hotly against yours.

"I love you." He kisses you so fleetingly you almost miss it. You grin, knit your hands in his, and kiss the tears away from his face.

"Yeah."

* * *

 

Spring brings new life, and change. Winter melts away into the ground to become dirt and grass again, and slowly, the world buds open its petals to the warm sun. Jake stands close to you by the bus stop near the elementary school. He fidgets restlessly, and clings to the sleeve of your arm.

"Jake, it's going to be fine. She's dying to see you, I know it."

"Yes, but..." He sighs, and gnaws on his lip with his overbite. He's been doing that all week. No, he's been doing it since he won his case. It was a long battle, but with Dave's help and his new fortune on his side, Jake couldn't have possibly lost. Still, there was a lot to worry about.

"It's been so long..."

You slide your arm across his shoulders and hug him into your side. "She will love you just the same." Jake holds his breath, exhales, and nods.

The bus arrives not a minute later. It screeches to a halt in front of the bench, a little ways from where you and Jake stand. He sees it and straightens up, and you step away to give him space when he tenses and widens his eyes. This isn't about you anymore. You don't think it ever was.

The door opens, and people file out. Jake rapidly searches the faces of each one, until the flow becomes a trickle and there are none left. He holds his breath. A last adult steps off the bus. But she doesn't leave right away. She turns and extends her hand out to an unseen person, and helps them down the rest of the steps.

It's a little girl.

Jake sees her, and falls to his knees.

_"Jade!"_

The girl whips her head around to you, then looks to the boy on the ground, with his arms wide open and tears twinkling in his eyes and a smile so big that he's been saving it for years. Her own bright eyes widen as she glances from him to the woman holding her hand.

Then the same smile breaks on her face, and she _runs_ towards him, slamming into his opens arms until they both topple over and their laughter and sobs pierce the air. Jade cries hard into his arms, and Jake squeezes her tightly into his chest in a hug that he's been holding back for far too long.

You watch the scene, quietly, holding your breath to hide the dampness on your own stoic face. Jake looks over at you briefly, his smile permanently drawn onto his face along with the sunburnt red at the heights of his cheeks. You chuckle, and say something about how he looks silly. He ignores you and extends his hand out. You stare at it, then grin softly, as you bend down on the floor with them and pull Jake into your own hug.

You can't help but cry silently with them. You're not ashamed, and you don't try to hide it. You've never felt happiness so profound.

The minutes go by, then days, and months, and years, and that happiness stays with you. Jake carries it with him wherever he goes, and it umbrellas you always, because he is always with you. A long time ago you thought he needed you. You thought you were his only chance and his only ray of hope. But now, you are the one that desperately needs him, like the grass needs the water and the flowers need the sun.

As Jade sleeps in her room one night, after you've grown many years, you tell him this, in the quiet of the dark and the intimacy of his arms. You whisper it like it's your darkest secret. But Jake listens until the very end, and when you're done, he quirks his lips softly, and chuckles. "Oh, Dirk, my darling. My precious." He kisses you, and it feels like the first time, and the last.

"I already knew that."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I needed a little break from writing astriferous eyes, so to those who are patiently waiting for the next installment I deeply apologize! I am working very hard on it, I just want it to be absolutely perfect before I upload anything. ;; thank you so much for reading <333


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